


dies irae

by blood_and_gore



Series: Originals [5]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Ableism, Dystopia, Government Conspiracy, Metaphors, Other, Police Brutality, Social Issues, Transphobia, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 10:00:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18798094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blood_and_gore/pseuds/blood_and_gore
Summary: kind of like the first chapter of "Fairytales and Fancies" but darker, and with the "Singer" character as the bad guy and/or representation of evil on this planet. i wrote this to work through my trauma. (dabs)





	dies irae

**Author's Note:**

> kind of like the first chapter of "Fairytales and Fancies" but darker, and with the "Singer" character as the bad guy and/or representation of evil on this planet. i wrote this to work through my trauma. (dabs)

 

 

The air hums like a cello player, in a horrible fascimile of harmony.

 

.

The air has always hummed.

There are those who say that, long ago, it did not- but they are old and senile and echoing folk tales from their own less-than-stable ancestors. They are not to be trusted, says the Singer.

.

The Singer, similarly, has always been here.

.

Sometimes, when the Singer tires, a lucky few may hear the words. Those occasions are so great and terrible, that seldom do the Listeners survive; their bodies are overcome, and they must dance until the Dancers take them away. When they return, they may fear neither illness nor injury, for their bodies become invulnerable, if only for a few short years.

.

Do. Do not. That is not the question.

.

Infortune lost his voice last week. They've been trying to hide it, but everyone knows what comes Friday night when he fails to join in the song. The Dancers will take him away. He has been marked, marked for his moon-mouth and stuttering limbs, and the Song is meant for only the best. The Dancers will fail again to fix him, and the butcher will be left without an heir.

.

The girl who calls herself a boy was taken last month, and the same month a year ago. She was taken the year before that and will be taken again next year to be re-evaluated.

The Song is meant to be sung by those who can blend, not sopranos who try to fit into the tenor parts.

Our society is perfect in every single little way; why on earth would she want to change? At least she isn't one of those tenors trying to be sopranos, though. The Dancers will shoot them on sight, especially the wood-skinned ones.

.

The tone of the choir is meant to be light, light, light.

.

On occasion, somebody sticks a hand in the air and asks if the repertoire can't perhaps-maybe-um be changed this year. That person is stared at, snickered at. They are shuffled around to the uniforms department; with nothing else to do, the robes become red, red as blood.

.

The girl-boy hides very well, but still they trust too much. The baritone takes their hand and drops them into the abyss; they shriek, a C7 sustained.

.

Is there more to life than whistle tones?

.

Are your senses tangled up? Are you falling? Are you falling?

.

The air hums its displeasure. You breathe it in and pull out another strand of hair. The roots, you decide, are yours. You are uprooting yourself over and over again, biting down on your own sorrow in a world that knows not Requiems or cantatas, only the same slow long horrible horrible song.

.

The boy-soprano grabs the hand of the neither-tenor. They make it over the walls of the fence, but the tenor falls. The soprano looks back, and he wails. This is a world that knows not Orpheus, that knows not opera; but this is a world where he will continue his escape, alone.

.

There's a woman here that used to be a Dancer.

"Once," she says, "there was an art form called Dance. People would move their bodies and make the world more beautiful. And there would be Music." One by one, everyone agrees that it's probably for the better that the Song is forbidden here. Music, you say, should be Music and not the work of the Singer.

.

You hold the hand of the Boy Soprano. He is a mezzo now, but they call him this still.

.

The air hums, a brief twang, a vibration so minuscule as to go unnoticed.

.

The knife hits the Singer in the heart.


End file.
